


Be brave. Be selfish. Say, "Yes."

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M, Requited Love, Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just after the end of 9.8. This is my own response to the prompt to include the line, "Tell me every terrible thing you ever did and let me love you anyway". One-shot. All characters belong to Kudos and no copyright infringement is intended. Reviews are very much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be brave. Be selfish. Say, "Yes."

He pushes the front door closed behind him and there is silence. He stands there, just inside the house, staring straight ahead, his mind blank for a few blissful seconds before it floods with a cacophony of thoughts and emotions, things that he's not allowed himself to think about all day while there'd been stuff to do, people to speak to, events to focus on. The silence is suddenly deafening and oppressive and he has to move, find some activity to distract him again lest he become overwhelmed by the enormity of the events of the last 24 hours. It's been one _hell_ of a day. It's up there with the day Ruth left after Cotterdam and the day they'd inadvertently unleashed a biological weapon on London.

_And that moment, when you decided to make that deal, it was unfair of you to love me._

Unfair, he thinks... unfair. He shakes his head to clear it and dumps his keys in the ash-tray on the hall table, a relic from his youth and a time long ago when he used to smoke. A wedding present, if he's not mistaken, from his Great Aunt Becky that Jane hadn't wanted to keep after the divorce.

_I wish I'd met you first... So do I._

Lucas. Lucas dead. Such a waste. He shrugs off his coat and jacket, hanging them up and kicking off his shoes before walking into the living room and across to his whisky, pulling his tie off and letting it drop onto the coffee table, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt next. He flicks on no lights, but has no trouble locating the decanter and his glass as they twinkle at him in the muted street light filtering though the translucent curtains, almost beckoning.

He downs the first glass in one before lifting the decanter to refill it as he tries and fails to push aside the thoughts that crowd his mind.

_There's going to be a full enquiry and not just into this sorry affair... into you, Harry, your whole career._

One mistake, one miss-judgement, one woman dead and his whole career goes down the toilet. He takes another swig of his drink, stopping himself from downing this glass too. He misses Scarlet, misses the warm welcome home, the unconditional love and comfort she used to offer him, the distraction she used to provide.

_It was unfair of you to love me._

Unfair. Unfair perhaps, but unavoidable, and he believes, inevitable too. Even now, even knowing how it all turned out, he'd do it again; he'd do it in a heartbeat. A world without Ruth is one he doesn't even want to contemplate, let alone live in.

He drains the glass and pours another. Getting drunk seems like a good idea right about now though he'll probably regret it come morning. His thoughts are too loud, his sorrow too deep, his pain too heavy. It's over. Everything is over. His career, his life's work, his trust in his team and his hope for a future with Ruth. All gone in the space of just a few hours.

He's still standing, staring out the window with his third glass of whisky on its way to his lips, when the doorbell rings. He pauses for a moment, the glass suspended in mid-air, before he shrugs slightly and ignores the bell, taking another gulp of his drink. Whoever it is will go away, he decides as he turns to face the room and makes his way over to his armchair, intending to settle in for the night, fully expecting to wake up there tomorrow morning. But his unwelcome caller doesn't give up, ringing the bell again and again, persistently and impatiently pressing the button over and over until he swears in annoyance, and putting down his glass and the decanter, he extracts himself from the armchair, walks to the door and flings it open.

“What?!” he demands aggressively and glowers at the person who's intruded on his solitude.

A hand rises to the figure's face and pushes aside her windswept hair, revealing a very familiar face and the most beautiful pair of eyes in the world. “Ruth,” he breathes softly, reverently, before he recalls all that's happened today and is suddenly wary. He doesn't think he can cope with her rehashing it all right now.

In the warm glow from the outside light above her, she watches his face light up for just a second as he recognises her, the pleasure infusing all his features for a moment before he slips his mask of control on once more, but even that, his spook face, is such a welcome sight right now, seeing him before her, real and beautifully alive. She feels tears gather in her eyes as she remembers the moment when she'd thought him dead, the moment when she'd realised that she'd never see him again, the moment when she'd been filled with so much pain, so much regret, so much guilt over what she'd done and said to him.

_For God's sake, Ruth, be brave. Be selfish for once. You've done enough. Say, yes._

“Harry,” she chokes out and moves forwards, stepping over the threshold and wrapping her arms around his middle as she buries her face in his chest.

He stands motionless for a moment in shock, unable to believe this is happening, not knowing quite what to do. “Harry,” she sighs into his chest, the note of contentment in her voice unmistakable, and he feels a lump rise in his throat in response and gently places his arms around her, his left hand resting against her lower back, and his right between her shoulder blades.

They stand in silence like this for long moments until the strength of the gusts of wind whipping into the house through the open door and winding themselves around them compel him to speak. “Ruth?” he murmurs softly. “Let me close the front door.”

“No,” she responds, surprising him.

“No?” he frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I won't be brave enough to do this again once I let go,” she confesses into his chest, her words muffled by the cotton of his shirt so that he has to strain his ears to hear her.

He smiles at that, murmuring, “That's okay, Ruth. I'll be brave enough for both of us.” Gently he disentangles himself from her embrace, and clasping her hand in his, he pulls her further into the house while, with his other hand, he pushes the door to and locks it. It's dark now with the door closed and it takes them a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. She watches him watch her, wondering what he's thinking. It seems almost surreal, finding herself in his hall in the dead of night, finding herself in his arms like that a moment ago.

“Let me take your coat,” he murmurs, breaking the silence that's settled between them and releasing her hand that he's been holding, his touch warm and comforting. Slowly, he reaches towards her, his hands beginning to unbutton her coat before either of them have thought about it, about how intimate the gesture is and how erotic. He's already undone a couple when he realises what he's doing, freezing in the act of unbuttoning the third, his eyes darting up to hers in alarm as he pulls his hands back with a mumbled apology.

“Don't be,” she whispers, deftly undoing the rest of the buttons and shrugging her coat off before handing it to him. He hangs it up and turns towards her once more, slowly moving closer and gently wrapping his arms around her, half expecting her to object and feeling relieved and elated when she doesn't. He feels her lean into him with a sigh, her hands slipping round him as she nestles her face into his neck, her head resting on his left shoulder, and he feels a blanket of peace and contentment settle over his heart. A few minutes ago, he was wallowing in self-pity and despair, believing Ruth to be lost to him forever, and now she's in his arms, and though he knows it's only temporary and that it can't last long now, knowing that the fallout from Albany will be catastrophic, he can't help basking in it, in the pleasure of it, in the feeling of being loved by the woman he's adored for so long.

She feels his lips press against her hair and sighs again in contentment, amazed by how _right_ it feels to be wrapped in Harry's arms. She's been so stupid to deny them this. She turns her head and presses a kiss against his chest before leaning back to look up at him. His gaze is dark and fathomless as he gazes down at her in the semi-darkness. She scans his face, drinking him in hungrily, and when she sees him lean in, she doesn't hesitate before lifting her face towards him and slipping her hands behind his neck, pulling him closer. Their lips meet in a soft, exploratory kiss, a kiss of welcome and guarded hope. It's short and sweet and has them both smiling in delight when they pull apart, just far enough to see each other clearly.

Their second kiss is a little bolder though still chaste and loving, but the third is something else entirely. There is passion in this kiss, suppressed at first, but unmistakeably there, simmering bellow the surface and making them both breathe heavier and tighten their grip on each other. Her fingers tangle in his hair even as he moves his right hand up to cradle her head, his left pulling her body closer to his. Her lips part on a sigh and it's their undoing, his tongue swiftly invading her mouth as she pulls his head down, her gasp of pleasure getting lost in his mouth as his deep groan of longing reverberates within them and around them, the electricity crackling between them. They come up for air only to plunge in again, deeper and deeper, more and more desperately, clinging to each other with years' worth of pent up longing and need.

When he'd realised who was standing on his doorstep, he'd been expecting more questions, more disapproval, more accusations, and he'd quickly prepared himself for that, prepared to defend himself and his choices, prepared to defend his love. But he hadn't been prepared for this – this gentleness, this openness, this love, this passion – and it's taken him so much by surprise that he can't seem to pull back from her despite his own misgivings and belief that this can never be after everything that's happened, and he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the world of his most secret and cherished dreams and fantasies, a world where Ruth loves him and they have a beautiful, satisfying and intimate life together. When he eventually finds it in him to pull back and try to act the gentleman, she surprises him by gently shaking her head and murmuring, “Don't, Harry. Don't say anything. Just take me up to bed.”

He groans, completely overcome by the simplicity and the honesty of her request, wondering briefly where this Ruth has come from and why it is tonight of all nights, the one night that can have no tomorrow, the one night without a future for them together, that she's ready for more. He knows he should stop this here, knows it's unfair to take her to bed with so much uncertainty hanging over them, but when it comes down to it, he cannot deny himself, cannot deny them this one night of love and passion and sweet abandon.

They stumble upstairs in between kisses and caresses, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind them, and make it to his bed with nothing but their underwear remaining. “Ruth,” he forces himself to say as he hovers above her, his hands cupping her face as he pushes her hair out of the way, “are you sure?”

“Positive,” she smiles, her blue eyes alight with passion. “I love you and I want you, Harry. Make love to me please.” She watches him smile in return, his eyes open and adoring as he leans in to kiss her, the passion rising between them and spurring them on, pushing them towards a must anticipated, much desired, and much longed for consummation of their love for each other that has survived against all odds over all these years.

Afterwards, she lies contentedly in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest as she toys with the curls at the nape of his neck, her thigh pressing gently against his genitals, now soft and warm, and her toes softly stroking his calf. She can't recall ever feeling this happy or hopeful, hopeful that this is their time, that they can be together, that they can make it.

His eyes are closed but he's not sleeping; he's replaying all that's just happened in his mind, seeking to memorise every beautiful, wonderful detail, never wanting to forget any part of it. It had been so much better than he'd ever dreamt it would be. Ruth had been so different, so much more confident than he'd expected. She'd known exactly what she'd wanted and hadn't been afraid to ask for it, to direct him and even _show_ him how to please her. He'd expected her to be a silent, timid lover, but she'd been anything but.

He sighs heavily, drawing her attention to him and making her open her eyes to look at him. She can see him clearly in the light coming from the bedside lamp, a light she'd asked him to turn on so she could see him during their love making. “All right?” she asks softly, lifting her head off his chest and leaning back so she can see his face.

“Mmm,” he hums, but his eyes look troubled and so terribly sad as he turns to look at her.

“What is it?” she questions, feeling her euphoria begin to dissolve.

“Oh Ruth,” he sighs and she can see tears gather in his eyes.

“Harry, you're scaring me,” she says, lifting herself onto her right elbow to see him better. “What's wrong?”

“I wish,” he murmurs, his voice gruff, “I wish we could have done this sooner... when there was a chance for us, Ruth.”

“We have a chance now, Harry,” she frowns, feeling her stomach drop. “Don't we?”

“Albany,” he murmurs softly and then pauses as if searching for the right words.

“Albany doesn't matter, Harry,” she's quick to reassure him. “I shouldn't have said what I said. I was upset that you'd potentially traded all those people, all those lives for mine, but I realised today, when Lucas took you, that I'd have done anything too, anything Lucas asked to keep you alive, to have you back. So, you see, though I'd rather the price of my life hadn't been... so high, I _am_ grateful, Harry, and happy that you love me so much and that Lucas spared you.”

He smiles gently and lifts his hand to cup her cheek, softly stroking it with his thumb. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his heart feeling lighter, “but I'm afraid that there are other consequences for what I've done, consequences that'll spell the end of my time in the service, and perhaps, even some time in jail.”

“No,” she shakes her head determinedly, “No, Harry. They won't do that to you. Not after the service you've given.”

“They want me out, Ruth,” he murmurs. “The Home Secretary said as much. There's going to be a full enquiry, not only into Albany, but into my entire career. He told me to prepare for life after MI-5.”

“Oh Harry,” she sighs, lifting her own hand to stroke his cheek. “You gave up so much for me. I don't deserve it.”

“Nonsense, Ruth,” he replies. “What good would it have done me to secure my job if you hadn't been alive in this world? Your life will always be precious to me, Ruth, more important than everything else.”

She feels tears gather in her eyes and slide down her cheeks, so moved is she by his words. “Then why won't you let me share it with you? If they kick you out, I want to come with you. The only reason I'm still working for Five is you. I'd have quit long ago, probably wouldn't even have come back, if it weren't for you. I want to be with you, Harry. Always.”

He shakes his head, blinking back tears of his own, fighting to remain in control of his emotions. He's longed for this, for her to realise that they could be good together, for her to want him and a future with him, but now it's too late. “I can't, Ruth. I'm sorry.”

“Why not?” she demands, suddenly cross with him.

“You don't know what you're asking, Ruth,” he replies desperately. “You don't know what I've done.”

“What you've done?” she frowns. “What you've done when? To whom?”

“That's just it,” he murmurs, looking away. “They're going to dig into everything, unearth all the secrets, the lies, the deceits, go over every operation with a fine-tooth comb.”

“They?” she questions. “The enquiry?”

He nods miserably and sighs heavily before he explains, “I've been a spy for decades, Ruth. I've done things, especially in my youth, unspeakable, amoral things, and when you know of them...” He tails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“You think I'll despise you?” she frowns. “Is that it? You think I'll not want to be with you any more?”

“Yes,” he admits softly. “I know you won't. So please, Ruth, spare me that. Spare me the look in your eyes when you lose all respect for me... when I lose your love. I couldn't bear to see that.”

“You won't, Harry,” she replies determinedly. “You won't see that look in my eyes because it's never going to happen. I know you're not perfect. I know you've done some pretty awful things. I'm not naïve. I was _there_ for quite a few of them; I stood by you then and I stand by you now.”

He doesn't know what to think as she stares at him, her jaw set determinedly, her eyes challenging and fierce, daring him to contradict her. She looks magnificent, beautiful and so desirable, and he finds a little part of him begin to clutch at this thin thread of hope she's offering. Could it possibly be true?

She watches him struggle with the decision to trust her, understanding the enormity of what it is she's asking of him. It is not a small thing to confess one's deepest secrets to another person, but she knows it's the only way she'll ever get him to trust her completely. She gave up everything for him once, but that was a long time ago and she's spent all the time since pushing him away and keeping her distance. She can't blame him for not trusting her after the way she's behaved. He's made it perfectly clear that his feelings haven't changed, and by giving away Albany, he's shown her that she means more to him than his duty to his country. Regnum Defende, whatever the cost, except Ruth. Now it's her turn to prove her love and show him that she accepts him and loves him just the way he is. “Tell me now, Harry. I'll find out anyway during the enquiry, but I'd rather hear it from you. Tell me every terrible thing you ever did,” she murmurs, reaching her hand up to stroke his cheek, gazing into his eyes as she adds, “And let me love you anyway.”

“Will you?” he asks softly, looking so vulnerable all of a sudden that she has to swallow the lump in her throat before she can reply.

“Yes,” she smiles. “I will, Harry.”

“Okay,” he nods and clears his throat before adding, “but not here. I can't do it in bed.” He doesn't think he could bare it if she walked out on him from the bedroom where they've just made love. It would forever taint his memory of that special moment that he intends to treasure always, whatever the outcome of his revelations might be. “Let's get a drink,” he suggests.

“All right,” she smiles, rolling away from him and stretching. “Tea though, not whisky. I suspect you've had enough of that already.” He lifts his eyebrows at her at that, prompting her to add, “I could taste it on your lips.” Then she quickly rolls towards him again and kisses him softly, smiling as she pulls back and declares, “Yup. Definitely whisky.”

He smiles, overcome for a moment by his love for her, loving this playful side of her that he's never seen before. “I love you,” he murmurs softly, reaching up a hand to brush her hair out of her face and push it behind her ear. “I've never told you before, not in as many words, but I do. I love you, Ruth Evershed, and I hope...” He tails off, unable to complete the thought, fearing to get his hopes up any more than they are already.

“I know, Harry,” she replies seriously, “I think you've more than proved that now.” Then she smiles and drops a quick kiss on his lips before sitting up and saying, “Now, come on, slow coach, or it'll be morning before we get back to bed.” And between that and her request to borrow a robe so she doesn't have to get dressed again, he's feeling quite a bit more hopeful that things will turn out well by the time they're sitting across from each other at the kitchen table with a mug of tea each and a packet of Hobnobs between them.

He begins slowly at first, in a somewhat stilted fashion, starting with his recruitment and first few uneventful months in Ireland, but as he talks, he finds it getting easier to continue, and soon, he even comes to the decision to share _everything_ , leave nothing out, personal or professional, so that, if Ruth decides to stay with him after all, he'll be absolutely certain that she loves him and forgives him all. He doesn't want to wonder in the years to come, nor does he want to have to repeat this experience; he'll do it once and do it well.

It helps that Ruth is entirely silent throughout his tale, sensing perhaps that he needs that in order to have the courage to get it all off his chest. And he does tell it all, from Northern Ireland, to Paris, to Tehran, to Cologne, to Berlin, and back to MI-5, leaving nothing out, personal or professional; it's all there – marriage, adultery, affairs, honey traps, lies, deceit, black ops, mistakes, wrong calls, sacrifices, kill orders, crimes and murders.

He doesn't touch the biscuits and only sips his tea when he needs to moisten his mouth and throat, barely tasting it so caught up has be become in his narrative and the emotions his memories evoke. He doesn't look at Ruth, addressing his words to the table; it's the only way he can get through this.

She watches the emotions play across his face as he speaks, watches the anger flash through his eyes one moment and tears gather the next, watches the sadness creep into his gaze and the guilt and regret pool in the depths of it. And her own emotions ebb and flow with his, feeling outraged and angry one moment, disbelieving the next, disgusted and upset after that, and then heartbroken and lost. But most of all, throughout his tale, she feels a love and admiration so strong as to leave her heart aching with it. Never before has she realised quite how _much_ he's given, and she can't help feeling angry that they're now repaying him for so many years of loyal service and sacrifice with an enquiry and the threat of kicking him out in the cold.

When he finally reaches the end with his description of his thoughts, feelings and actions in the last few days, he's exhausted, his voice hoarse from overuse, his energy spent. Long moments of silence follow, during which he expects Ruth to get up and leave any minute now, and every second she spends still sitting at the table gives him new hope that perhaps she won't. It seems like hours later that she reaches out her hand and covers his, clasping it gently and giving it a reassuring squeeze as she softly murmurs, “Harry... thank you for sharing all that with me.”

Her voice is warm and slightly unsteady, causing him to finally lift his gaze to hers. Her eyes are bright and her cheeks damp with tears, but she's smiling softly at him and her gaze is so tender that he can't help the way his breathing becomes suddenly heavy with suppressed emotion. “You are by no means perfect, Harry,” she says, “and what you've told me proves that, I think, quite nicely. But it also proves that you are a remarkable, loyal, and dedicated man who has given so much...” She pauses here as her voice cracks and she clears her throat before continuing, “So much, Harry, that all I can feel is admiration and love for you. In fact, I think I might have just fallen even more in love with you then ever.”

He swallows and drops his gaze as he squeezes her hand in his, blinking a few times in an effort to keep the tears at bay, but he doesn't quite succeed as a few of them escape and roll down his cheeks. “I'm not sure I deserve you,” he murmurs huskily as he wipes away the tears and lifts his eyes to hers once more.

“Everyone deserves to be loved, Harry,” she smiles, then getting up, she presses her lips against his forehead once, just to the left of his bandaged cut, and begins to clear the table, giving him a few moments to compose himself.

When she's done, she returns to her seat, reaching across the table for his hands that he willingly gives her, clasping hers gently in his own. “Harry,” she murmurs, “I'm sorry, but I have to ask... What you said about Albany not being real... is that true?”

“Yes,” he nods, watching her carefully, a little wary of her reaction. “I know it makes what I did seem less...” he pauses looking for the right word, but she interrupts him.

“No, Harry,” she shakes her head. “It doesn't make it less anything. Not to me. I couldn't get my head around how you could have traded my life for millions of others, but now it makes sense. _You_ make sense. You're the Harry I know and love again and I'm just so... _relieved_ that I don't have to carry the burden of all those lives on my conscience forever more, not to mention thrilled to hear that such an awful weapon doesn't really exist.”

He smiles and squeezes her hands, relieved beyond words to know that she sees it as a positive thing. Then he watches as she gets up, saying, “Come on, Harry. It's late. Time for bed. I hope you don't mind if I share yours tonight?”

“Nothing would please me more,” he replies, releasing her left hand and bringing her right to his lips before he stands, adding softly, “Thank you, Ruth.”

She just smiles up at him and murmurs, “I like being brave and selfish.” He gives her a quizzical look, so she adds, “I'll tell you about it another time. It's late and we need to sleep.” And with that they walk upstairs hand in hand and slip under the covers, sharing a few loving kisses before Harry spoons himself around her and they fall asleep, dreaming of a brighter, happier tomorrow.

 

 


End file.
